


From Tel Aviv With Love

by Rigel99



Series: To Be a Quartermaster [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-20 18:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q had asked for a gift. Bond was more than happy to oblige.</p><p>Scene set between Chapter 6 and Epilogue of "Bound".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scene I

Arduous. Stressful. Age-inducing.

These were but a few of the choice words that fittingly described the last few days in the life of MI6’s Quartermaster. Q slipped the key into the lock and punched the alarm code into the keypad before dropping his bag in a heap by the front door.

Arthur Clifton loved his work, took an inordinate amount of pride in his contribution to the safety of the nation’s interests at home and abroad.

He shuffled, zombie-like, towards his kitchen for a glass of water. Pushing thirty maybe, but weeks like these made him feel more like three hundred.

He stared at the half-empty glass in his hand. Forget the shelf-life of Double-Os. He’d be lucky himself to make it to retirement age.

Assuming James Bloody Bond didn’t give him a heart attack before that.

He sighed and put the glass by the sink. Q was by the book. 007 was so far off the book, the book had yet to be written. Bond wrote his own rules, lived by his own set of principles that did not conform to those established by the SIS, or the rest of the world for that matter. Q was staring into space, but he couldn’t see passed the next mission. He wondered if this was a good thing or a bad thing. If, the next time 007 rolled the dice, would he be so lucky. Q was absently stroking the scruff of Charles neck and welcomed the purring vibration against his palm. Even cats only have nine lives, he thought to himself.

With a parting stroke lavished across warm fur, he fed his animals before retreating to his bedroom, stripping off clothes to leave a trail behind that followed him to his en-suite shower. He stepped beneath the warming spray, allowing the water to do its work and rinse away the evidence of the collision of bodies against the wall in his office only three hours earlier.

Not that he would ever be able to wash away the smell of James’ sweat, potent like that of a wild animal thrumming with the anticipation of taking down its prey, nor the memory of his touch, warm and deadly, soft but edged with the steely sense of a man that walked a tightrope of pain and pleasure in each and every experience. To remind himself that he was alive, that he was still breathing, that he could feel…

So lost in thought as he soaped his body, tracing fingers across smooth skin that had been touched and so responsive to his agent, he didn’t hear the shower door open, thought he was dreaming when two strong hands joined his own on his belly and chest… But when soft lips caressed his neck and he turned to face the intruder, he knew he was wide awake and lost. Because come hell or high water, Arthur Clifton would willingly, always and forever drown in the depths of azure blue before giving up this man.


	2. Scene II

“It is possible that I should have asked you how the blazes you gained entry to my home before I let you soap me down…” Q picked up his glasses from beside the bathroom sink and stood leaning against the doorframe watching Bond, face trained with feigned severity.

James was sitting on the edge of Q’s bed, waist wrapped in a towel, drying his hair vigorously with another.

“Well?”

He peered out from beneath the white material, eyes sparkling with their usual mischievous glint. “I may have taken an imprint of your house keys on my way out the door to the Tel Aviv mission.”

“I certainly hope you don’t make a habit of breaking into your other superior’s private spaces, Bond.”

“Only you, and occasionally M,” he said with a beaming grin.

Q shook his head in resignation. “I really don’t want to know, James.”

“Mmmmm,” he murmured, a sound Q was rapidly coming to identify with a certain state of mind as far as 007 was concerned. “Have I told you how bloody fantastic my name sounds when you say it, Arthur?”

That caused a wave of goosebumps down his back, a sensation that Q was happy to attribute to the cooling temperature of the bathroom behind him, and not the sight of a mostly naked James Bond sitting perched on the end of his bed. _Gorgeous bastard._

He snorted and threw his towel at the still seated man. “And have I told you that you are a fucking narcissist?”

“But I’m your narcissist.” He stood then and stalked towards Q, intent clear in his eyes.

Q raised his hand to James chest and he stopped in front of him, just as James’ towel dropped to the floor. Q, however, was not going to give him any more satisfaction than he had already taken.

Not yet anyway.

He removed his own towel and handed it to Bond. “Dry yourself off. James. I’ll make us some coffee,” as he sauntered out the bedroom door, to the feel of blue heat boring a hole in his retreating back.

“You do that, Quartermaster,” called James, as he resumed towelling his bruised body, though the hormones flooding his system now were more than dulling their gentle ache.

Bond could only hope that coffee before bed was a promising scenario and that was even before Q had laid eyes on the gift James had left on the island counter.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”

Indeed, thought James with a sly smile, wrapping himself in one of Q’s oversized robes strolling from the room to join his Quartermaster in the kitchen. Coffee. And plenty of it…


	3. Scene III

_Jesus Fucking Christ indeed,_ was the next thought to flutter through Bond’s mind as he stopped dead at the entrance to the kitchen and greedily consumed the view before him, drinking it down like an alcoholic who had fallen into a vat of Scotch.

Having foregone the idea of a towel in what James had hoped was an effort to wind him up (not that he needed much encouragement in that department), Q stood gloriously naked, bent at the waist, completely focussed on the laptop screen in front of him.

James committed the view to memory. For when the real thing wasn’t immediately available.

It was, however, immediately available. _Now._

He kept his distance, resisting through sheer force of will, the temptation to walk up behind him and ravish him body and soul right there. If he knew his Quartermaster the way he thought (and hoped) he did, Bond would be the one lying back and thinking of England for the rest of the night.

“Do you like it?”

Q tore his eyes almost grudgingly away from the screen, a look that quickly adapted to reflect the look to which he was currently being subjected.

“Bastard,” he grumbled pushing his glasses further up his face while strolling towards the agent. He grabbed the lapels of Bond’s robe and pressed his forehead to his. “You know just how to get far enough under my skin. A constant itch that trails beneath, deep enough that I can’t quite reach but shallow enough to encourage me to keep trying.”

Bond said nothing, allowing the full magnitude of his gift to register with the Quartermaster whom it didn’t take long at all to figure out the situation.

Q pushed him away and grabbed his wrist, all but dragging him back to the bedroom, Bond willingly allowing himself to be led to his fate.

“What about coffee?” Bond enquired, framed as an almost innocent afterthought, knowing full well what the response would be.

Q wasn’t even going to bother firing back a response so intent he was on his own mission but he couldn’t let him away with the comment. He kicked the door shut as he wrenched Bond’s robe open and pushed him onto the bed.  “You know damn well those blueprints you brought back from Tel Aviv for that weaponry is better than any bloody cup of coffee or any other stimulant as far as MI6’s Quartermaster is concerned, Bond.”

“Clever bastard,” he mumbled, shedding his glasses as he climbed over James and pinned him to the bed.

Q leaned over the agent, bodies close but not yet touching. “I am going to take you apart like my favourite weapon and reconstruct you so that you only respond to my palm print, 007.”

He brushed his lips against his ear. To his credit, the only part of Bond that was moving was the one he had little control over, given the position he was currently relishing beneath his Quartermaster. “Ready for your lesson in the employment of advanced weaponry, James?”

James smiled as he leaned up to capture waiting lips. “I don’t think I could be in any more capable hands, Arthur…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll likely add another chapter as I'd quite like to experiment with what thoughts are experienced in Q's mind as he tries to blow that of 007. :D


	4. Scene IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've just set myself the challenge of seeing how hot, long and drawn out I can make this tale of two titans...
> 
> CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!

Since long before MI6, Arthur Clifton had been obsessed with technology and weapons. A laptop was his fifth appendage as soon as he could afford the investment. A gift for coding came as naturally to him as the way thunder followed lightning. He dedicated himself to turning weapons of mass destruction into something useful, something positive. Well, as positive as things designed to blow up other things could be made.

Though never, in his wildest, wettest dreams did he imagine he would have the opportunity to wield a weapon like Commander James Bloody Bond…

_Mmmm. There’s a thought._

“It occurs to me you have me at a distinct advantage, James.”

“Says the man who has _me_ pinned to the bed? I assume you are not referring to our current relative positions, Arthur,” the agent murmured, his entire attention focussed on the slender hands presently engaged in exploring the territory of James Bond.

“That advantage,” Q stated. “You know my real name.”

“James Bond is my real name. I thought you knew that,” he replied, letting himself sink into the feel of Q’s hand circling over the bruise on his hip in a soothing motion.

“Tell me something I don’t know then.” Q asked, running his hand down the side of Bond’s leg and up the back of his thigh, just the right amount of pressure to garner a quiet moan that Bond stifled in his throat. “Your middle name?”

James laughed then. “Well I would tell you, Arthur, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Arthur ceased his soothing exploration of James’ latest bangs and bruises. “As your superior, 007, I order you to tell me your middle name,” feigning indignity that Bond considered he could not be trusted with such information. “We work for the most secretive organisation in the world. I trust you know I can keep my mouth shut.”

“Order all you want, Q. That piece of information is going with me to my grave,” placing his hands behind his tilted head and watching Q above him, straddled lean and so utterly shaggable, James was wondering how long he could maintain his disinterested pretence. Well, from the waist up anyway.

“Your grave might be welcoming you sooner than you think, James. Remember your life is in my hands on every mission and while I may not possess the knowledge of how best to extract information due to lack of field experience, I think you’ll find I have my own equally effective methods.”

“Oh? Go ahead and do your worst, Quartermaster.”

Q took a deep breath and leaned down to exhale hot breath across James’ neck and collarbone. He was rewarded with a slow blink and the briefest of shudders. _Christ._

A good start.

James made to move his hands from behind his head. “You haven’t earned that privilege yet, James.”

“If this is your way of thanking me for those blueprints, Q, I may have to refrain from indulging my Quartermaster on future missions.”

“Keep telling yourself that, James,” whispered Q, remaining straddled above him, adjusting himself and lowering his hips onto James’ stomach. “But you and I both know that I am going to turn those blueprints into something beautiful and deadly and I have yet to consider upon which Double-O I will bestow the honour of testing it.”

Q noted the slightest change in Bond’s demeanour through the semi-darkness. “Bribery? Low, Quartermaster.”

“As I said already,” a slow gyration of his hips across Bond’s stomach as he spoke, “I may not possess the field experience but I have my ways and means.”

He leaned down again, this time to allow the warmth of his torso to graze that of the prone agent before sitting back with another firm and maddeningly arousing grind of his hips into James’ stomach. “And you, 007, are about to discover just how effective are those ways and means…”


	5. Scene V

Q closed his eyes and allowed the very real fantasy that was currently vibrating beneath him with such admirable restraint to flood his senses. Q felt an almost overpowering need to reward the self-control to which he was bearing witness.

Almost.

How long it would be before Bond’s resolve broke and he could no longer hold back the waves of arousal, ebbing steady and undeniably hot between them, was certainly an experiment in which the Quartermaster wished to indulge.

He made a 180 degree turn, displaying a long, flawless expanse of back to the agent. He felt rather than heard the expelled huff of frustration and smiled to himself.

“You know, I’m building a weapon at the moment.”

“Really… Anything a Double-O might find interesting? Though I’m pretty sure it can’t be as interesting as what I’m looking at right now…”

As if on cue, Arthur leaned forward and began peppering soft kisses along James’ ankles, focussing on the tender piece of skin that covered his achilles tendon. He heard a gentle thud, which he correctly guessed was James’ head falling back against the headboard and the distinct feel of sheets being tugged where the agent was aggressively fisting them in a fine show of resisting touching the body on display.

“Oh I think you’d find it very interesting,” Q said, sitting up and adjusting his position slightly so that long, lean thighs were now straddling James’ chest. “You see, I’ve modelled the design on your body.”

Despite how tantalisingly close, almost within tasting distance, some very interesting parts of Q’s anatomy now hovered, even James’ took pause on hearing those words.

“Excuse me?”

Q hoisted himself up in one smooth move and resumed his original position facing James, eyes bright, intelligent and excited. He looked so young and in that moment, almost ethereal and innocent.

Bond felt his chest tighten with the simultaneous thought of how the hell he had gotten so fucking lucky to end up in this man’s bed. Accepted, wanted, desired even. Warts, faults, emotional baggage and all.

He ran his hands gently across James’ torso, the heat between them generating the faintest sheen of sweat, smoothing the friction of those hands to an almost unbearable gentleness.

“I was modifying a design that I had been agonising over for an age. For some reason, as I was piecing it together, I thought of you…” running his hands up Bond’s arms, Bond’s hands still fisted in the sheets, a look on his face as though he was super-imposing the lines of the agents body onto his favourite blueprint, "and the design just sort of, fell into place."

“Please, Arthur…” Q looked at him then. His eyes screwed shut, it was fairly obvious that Q’s attempts at seductive torture were having the desired effect.

Bond was about to lose it.

He opened his eyes. Q noticed the blue was drowned by lagoons of black. “I need to touch you. Now…” He sat up suddenly, though still resisted the almost all-consuming urge to devour his beautiful Quartermaster. “And if it helps get me where I need to be — needed to be about 20 minutes ago in fact — my middle name…. is Herbert.”

Arthur couldn’t keep the triumphant but coy look from his eye as he gazed down at James. “See?” he whispered, transforming his expression into a warm and welcoming smile, all the permission the agent needed to grab him round the waist and wrestle him underneath his trembling form. “Told you I had ways and means, Commander Bond.”


	6. Scene VI

“An interesting thought occurs to me,” said James, looking down at the prone, gently writhing length beneath him. Having wrestled back temporary control of the situation, he spoke with a tender reverence while running strong hands down the sides of Q’s body, “that thought being that every time I wield a weapon, I’m holding a part of you in my hand, and when I pull the trigger that the gentle kickback that flows up my arm and sparks the neurones in the pleasure centre of my brain, is you reminding me to come home.” He lifted Q’s palm to his mouth and traced lips down his inner arm, the trail of goosebumps shivering beneath the tip of his tongue, all the evidence he needed, proof the effect of his words. “That kind of association could lead to all manner of interesting scenarios, don’t you think, Arthur?”

“God I hate you, Bond,” breathed Q, freeing his hand from Bond’s gentle hold to clutch the back of Bond’s head while the other travelled down his spine, rhythmically flexing long fingers as it journeyed mapping the terrain that told stories of demons battled and wars on behalf of his country hard won. All the while his body pulsed in response to the push and pull of Bond’s other hand beating out a rhythm all its own that Q was powerless to resist.

“Methinks the Quartermaster doth protest too much,” murmured Bond, soft and purr-like. “Perhaps he hates not the agent, but more how willingly and openly his body responds to his touch, how powerless and pliant he becomes. Knows all too well that, like the hands of the Q that unravel the mysteries of the virtual world, the hands of his agent can decode with relative ease the encrypted lines of his Quartermaster’s body.”

“Christ almighty, Bond, when did you get so bloody poetic?”

“I’m very well read I’ll have you know, Arthur. Access to an extensive library during my youth exposed me to all manner of written wit and repartee…”

Q propped himself up on his elbows to bring his face as close as he could to that of Bond. “An interesting thought occurs to me too, James.”

“And what might that be?” enquired James, leaning down to meet him. Q’s breath momentarily caught in his throat, his composure being shredded under the gem-sharp edges of a pair of sapphire blues. Q had rarely felt more simultaneously reckless and reassured in his entire life. It was an intoxicating feeling, driven entirely by the man with whom he presently shared his body and his bed.

“That right now, I need less the caress of the voice and more the caress of the lips. And don’t stop that thing you’re currently doing with your hands either, Bond. I didn’t notice a talent for multitasking in your file. An onerous omission indeed…” Q said, dropping back down to the bed and arching his back up, a simultaneous moan escaping his own parted lips.

“And if I do this for my Quartermaster? What does the agent on her majesty’s secret service receive in return,” his mouth hovering tantalisingly below his navel, eyes bright and mischievous gazing up the length of pale, perfect form.

Q rolled his body up towards Bond, as he spoke, not without a touch of humour and a smile in his voice. “Will her undying gratitude and a taste of the crown jewels be sufficient reward?”

Bond exhaled a genuine laugh before giving Q exactly what he wanted. “At your service, your majesty…”


	7. Scene VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I realise my "chapters" are short and I do treat them more like scenes. I can only hope whatever sweetness I try to convey therein makes up for the brevity.

There are many pleasurable and painful sensations to which we are subjected over the course of our lives. Some we wear on the inside, some on the outside. Watching the ripple and slide of muscles across Bond’s sunswept back in the half dark, laced with those scars he wore like badges of honour, Q was briefly transported back to that desert in Tel Aviv. As the pleasure Bond was drawing from his body rose like waves of heat from that desert’s sun, so too did the awareness of what he had done on the mission. Morally and instinctually, it was the only thing to do and yet, did the needs of the few outweigh the needs of the many? And the cost could have been more than even the stalwartness of a Quartermaster was born to endure.

Q placed a hand on his shoulder and without hesitation, Bond stilled.

“I was so angry, James. Mission briefs are there for a reason you know.”

“I know, Q.” Bond replied as he crawled up his body to lay on his side and pull the man along his length. “But you should know I would do the same again. It’s my MO. The innocent shouldn’t have to suffer in the face greedy men. Men, I might add, we are in some ways responsible for bringing to life.”

Q sighed. “I do think you sometimes fail to see the big picture. What the SIS is trying to achieve.”

“Perhaps I do. But there are a dozen boys and girls that right now, are better off than they were. Would you deny them that simple privilege? Who or what are you or I to leave them to a fate we have within our power to change? There was only one choice, Q.”

Bond rolled onto his back and dragged Q on top of him. “But thank you for being the angel and the devil on my shoulders, Arthur. Or in my ear, I should say,” he said not without humour. “I don’t ever second guess my decisions in the heat of the moment. I act regardless of the consequences. Those consequences certainly seem less insurmountable with you beating the MI6 drum.”

“Glad I could be of assistance,” Q murmured against his chest.

“Speaking of assistance…” said Bond, looking down, “I believe you started this.”

“Actually, James, you started it. By showing me those blueprints.”

“They were a gift, Q. I hardly expected such a rapturous response to their existence.”

“Oh, do shut up, James,” he said, before letting his tongue loose in the agent’s mouth, revelling in the taste of a successful albeit unorthodox end to a mission. He took his time re-capturing the newness of a man whom Q now knew he would experience every time he came back from the field, changed. Changed because of the voice in his ear, grounding him, giving him the purchase he needed in a world that was determined to test and temper his spirit and soul beyond reasonable measure. Q would be the gravity to break his impact when he was falling from the sky; the voice of strength and reassurance he needed to hear when he was drowning in an ocean of blood, bodies and weapons fire; the one to help him remember the man he was when he had no one else to make him feel less the ghost he became and more the person he truly was when wrapped in the armour of secret agent…

As fingers intertwined, the gentle, strangled sound of his given name reverberated into Q’s mouth. A prayer, a promise, a beginning.

“ _Oh God, James….”_


	8. Scene VIII

James awoke alone.

Well, sort of.

One cat was curled up by his side while the other furry demon had made himself comfortable on Q's pillow.  

Mmmm, he thought. Two cats. That either makes Q twice the evil genius he appears, or one cat cancels out the other and he is simply that what he is. A genius.

Bond smiled to himself as he stretched. Usually his first thought for the day involved a mental check of his vital signs, and while not unaccustomed to waking up alone, it was a turn of events to do so when he had lured an unsuspecting and beautiful mark into bed only hours before.

He sat up and looked around. The apartment looked only marginally more inhabited than his own. No doubt thanks to the hairy monsters Q called his "resident freeloaders." Q had apologised on nearly every occasion for the state of it. As he rose from the bed, Bond thought it about time he introduced Q to the clinical cliché that was his London abode. It was after all a month since their first dinner together, the day before he made good on his promise to "seduce the little bastard to within an inch of his life." 

Quite. Nice one James. Look at you now, he thought to himself, donning a robe in your Quartermaster's home and heading to the kitchen.

He reached for the kettle and spotted the note beneath a coffee cup on the counter.

_ "Make yourself at home, James. _

_ P.T.O." _

Then,

_ "Oh. Hang on. You already have. _

_ D.M.D." _

James could only guess what that meant but saw the fold in the piece of paper and opened it out.

_"Only jesting, old man._ (Cheeky sod, Bond thought to himself). _Cupboard right, by your head. PS Feed my cats before you leave. A."_

In said cupboard, Bond found the necessary materials for a rather fine cup of coffee. A Quartermaster who knows how to look after his agents by any and all means necessary is a treasure indeed...

His phone beeped as he sipped his brew.

_ "New mission. Vauxhall. One hour." _

A Double-O's work...

* * *

"Q."

He stood at a table in the armoury, a line of firearms in front of him.

"I look forward to the day when weapons will be used as a force for good and not to keep those with designs for bad at bay," Q said evenly, not diverting his attention from his work.

Only then did he put down the gun and turn around to face Bond, who had remained standing in the doorway.

"But as that Utopia is not likely to manifest in our foreseeable futures, I'll just have to settle for what I've got in the here and now."

"A wise plan, Q," he said, shouldering himself away from the door to join him at the table.

He placed a small brown envelope beside the gun. Q watched, intrigued by the agents apparent lack of interest in the full-metal firepower laid out before him. Q had that morning already begun dissecting the Tel Aviv prints. That was going to make for some interesting hardware indeed.

Bond was fingering the envelope. "I came by to drop off these." He gave Q a cursory glance, keeping his features neutral. "See you in 24 hours, Q," and turned to stroll out the door.

Q gazed after him. "Careful out there, 007."

Bond paused for the briefest of beats to throw a trademark slant of his lips in his direction.

"Goes without saying Q, but thank you for saying it regardless."

He looked at the envelope while Bond's shadow retreated down the hallway and touched it tentatively. _Keys?_

Q frowned. Why would Bond return him his keys? Unless...

Q felt his blood run hot then instantly cold as he strolled at a quick pace after the agent. He turned the end of the corridor within twenty seconds just in time to see the lift doors close and Bond throw him a smile and a wink.

Q relaxed.

He returned to the armoury and slipped open the envelope.

Two keys, not his own, and a note.

_ "I'll be back early tomorrow morning. It would be most gratifying to see your back in my bed on my return. _

_ PS Fed your those evil genius accessories of yours. PTO. _

_ Oh, and happy anniversary. J." _

Q looked up from the note and stared into the half distance, the small smile on his face replaced with a frown.  _ Anniversary? _

It took him three seconds to connect the dates. One month. The Shard. Their first kiss.  The smile returned. He picked up his phone and typed a quick, innocuous message.

James pulled out his phone as the car sped towards the airport.

_"Watch your back, 007."_

He smiled. A Quartermaster that knows how to wield advanced and complicated weaponry is a prize worth keeping. He gazed out the window as London meandered by. He would do everything in his power to keep Arthur Clifton.

 


End file.
